Estar a la Muerte
by Ning Ning
Summary: There are only some things that I can control. And even then, I'm not sure if I can. AUTime is moving backwards.
1. Sunrise: Canela

**Estar a la Muerte (to be at Death's door)**

**Rating: **T?

**Warnings: **Implied character death, sexual situations.

**Word Count: **402

_(i think he's dead_.)

The sunlight makes the trees glow underneath. The sky meets the ends of the earth, lush with clouds, purple and red, gold and black. The leaves sway in the wind; a light brush of air shifts, and cotton rustles, flapping against her legs.

Cinnamon, cinnamon, his oxygen is infected with cinnamon. His fingers are clutching an empty space of satin. When he breathes, he can feel the springs creak underneath his stomach, digging into his skin. His face is turned towards her body, bathed in faint rays of sunlight. His eyes are closed; she can see his golden-dusted eyelashes pressed against his alabaster skin.

She remembers feeling the silk ripples of his back, her fingertips tentatively touching the knots, her eyes wide in wonder. He had clutched her, whispering, _I'm sorry, I'm so so so sorry_, and when he pressed his lips against hers, it was chaste and it was dry; he was shuddering and whimpering, kissing her eyelids closed, burying his face into the crook of her neck.

She stares out at the window, a million stars winking (mocking?) at her. She remembers holding him in a repulsed fascination – the type when watching a train wreck. He was gentle with her and she had expected something different but he had held her tenderly, slowly pulling down the straps of her cotton nightdress, his eyes staring into hers, shining.

There is a sudden silence. His muffled breathing stops, and the springs of the bed marks his chest with their indentations. His hand does not clutch satin. The sheets are still tangled around his legs and the knuckles of his other hand have fallen to lightly graze the floor. He doesn't (_can't_) open his eyes and stare at the way the sunlight traces her silhouette. His hair is matted to his forehead, strands ready to be brushed away.

She walks over to his prone form; he doesn't look any different than from when he was sleeping. She pushes a few strands back, tracing the curve of his eyebrow, the plain of his forehead. She turns her head away to gaze at the moth-eaten curtains: dark, long, hooded shadows waiting in the corners.

She feels his fingers circle around her wrist, a vice-like grip as he brings her down for a kiss, as he brings her down to steal her cinnamon breath away.

"Sweetie, sweetie, I think he's dead, too."


	2. Midnight: Los dolores de corazón

_2: Los dolores de corazón._

She wakes up, an arm lying in a crooked angle on top of her. She can count the fine hairs on the arm, lit from the moonlight that peeks through. It's cold, and she's shivering. She can feel her nipples harden, rubbing against the cotton fabric, and she wraps the sheet tighter around her.

She begins to think of previous arms that had lain over her body. Ron's arm was speckled with freckles, she remembers, and she thought she could count over a hundred on his arm alone. She remembers Ron pointing to her a cluster that he had noted, with pride in his voice, as a constellation. Ron would hold her tight against him, almost clinging to her, as if he was afraid that she would leave.

He had strong arms, and she would trace her fingers over the indents while he was on top. He was passionate, his red hair and blue eyes the only thing that she had wanted to return to at night. He loved her. They were meant to be.

She still loves him, but she can't run into his arms. He is buried six feet under, and she shudders again, picturing the maggots that could be moving in and out of his eye sockets. She can't remember how he had fallen, but she thinks that if she was there, she could have done something to prevent him from calling out her name one last time. She thinks that they could have had a future together, a family full of children running with brown curly hair and blue eyes.

She remembers another pair of arms, strong but slim, with an olive skin tone. She used to brush down the black hair on his arm, before tiptoeing with her fingers to under his arms or his sides. Harry would growl at her, laughing since he was fairly ticklish, before trying to pin down her arms. She would evade capture, howling with laughter after Harry snuggled his face onto her skin and blew raspberries. During those times, sometimes Ron would join in, diving into the bed after struggling with himself, standing by the door.

She begins to cry when she remembers these things. But she feels Malfoy's heart beating against her back, and she can feel beads of sweat beginning to roll down her back, as she hears his breath hitch and quicken. She feels his lips press against the base of her neck, and she closes her eyes, trying to stop the flow.

His hand is snaking down to reach between her curls and all she thinks about is how his fingers feel inside her and how she wishes she could just stop thinking.


End file.
